


Horse Apples

by ManyManyMonsters



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Fluff and Humor, Grumpy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mommy? What's a beta?, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, unrequited Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26288515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManyManyMonsters/pseuds/ManyManyMonsters
Summary: Jaskier is not jealous of a horse, because that would be silly, right? But surely there must be something that cracks through Geralt's constant broody stoic silent-type facade...-------'Jaskier strummed his lute absently as he thought. “I think the shear amount dwarves often have, what with the mining and all, it lures out the worst. The greedy. But a fair payment for honest work? I stand by my statement. Money is money.”The wolf was curiously silent as he stalked on, leading Roach.“Geralt? They are paying us, are they not?”“Me. They are paying me. And we’ve agreed upon terms.”“Might I inquire as to those terms?”“No.”'
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am literally just making crap up because I've watched the Netflix fun and want to see if I can write an adventure for these two dumbasses. Please be kind.

* * *

“And what do you suppose the dwarves are hawking?” Jaskier pondered aloud as he and Geralt wove through the village market.This town was a backwater. A small trade stop-off for those entering the mountain pass, and Jaskier had no clue why they’d bothered with it other than Geralt’s mutter of ‘mountains mean monsters.’

“Not dwarves.” Geralt corrected after a glance where the bard indicated before he returned to paying a merchant for some strips of dried venison.

“Of course they’re dwarves. They’re half our size and this place is practically under the big toe of Mount Mine-It-All over there…”

Stowing the meat, Geralt shouldered his pack and gave his full attention to the small stall where two diminutive men with their fluffy speckled ponies were packing away their wares in a equally pint-sized cart.

It was twilight and Jaskier was foot-sore and beginning to get cold in the evening chill. He was ready to return to the tavern for hot food then to the stable they’d put up Roach in for bed, not argue over the obvious.

“If not dwarves, then what? Hey. Where are you going?”

Geralt, his mouth actually crooked up a little in the corner, was making his way to the short men’s stall.

To Jaskier’s absolute shock, Geralt nodded to the first merchant then said something in a strange clucking tongue to the man closest to one of the ponies. Both of the men were already dressed in for the Fall night’s chill in layers of simple rug-weave and linen, and both had hats and scarves bundled on, leaving only a little strip where their brown skin and eyes were visible. They both froze at Geralt’s speech, and Jaskier’s breath caught with apprehension… But then they bust out chuckling; one affectionately slapping the pony’s shoulder and the other shaking his head while he quickly pulled a reed basket back off their cart and, in the same clucking speech, chattered on as he opened it for Geralt to show off the wares within.

Jaskier tried to process what he’d just witnessed. It couldn’t be… It looked suspiciously like Geralt had just told these men a _joke._

Inside their basket was cheese. The men had fruit preserves and round soft white cheeses sealed in beeswax. The witcher selected two rounds of their remaining stock plus a jar of something that looked like pinkish gold marmalade. Paying the men, he fished in his belt pouch to retrieve one of Roach’s honey oat biscuits and added something while gesturing to the little horses. Jaskier could see the men smiling despite only their eyes being visible, and they took the treat, with nods that were suspiciously close to little bows before they broke it and shared it between their animals.

Almost speechless for once, Jaskier ran to keep up with Geralt’s long strides as the hunter made back for the tavern. “And what? Who was —what was that? Did you know those men?”

“Equils.”

Jaskier boggled. “What? You mean to tell me the Pony People are real? Those are children’s stories.”

Geralt growled and froze, spinning on Jaskier causing the bard to bump into him. “Don’t call them that.” His voice held a tone of warning.

Jaskier blinked and shook his head in disbelief. “Fine. Ok. Equils. They are real.”

“You just saw two.”

“And you know their language?”

“I know many tongues.” Geralt sighed and shouldered his way through the tavern door.

“But _Whickering_?”

The wolf snorted. “That’s not what it’s called.”

“Oh, well, excuse me. What is it called?”

Dropping into a chair in the corner, Geralt’s eyes sought one of the servers and he gave them a curt nod before looking hard and annoyed at Jaskier. “Equilese. Are you dense?”

“I’m just… In shock.”

“You’ve seen all manner of creatures and been cursed by a djinn—“

Jaskier lowered his voice to a hiss as the server brought them bread, stew and ale. “I suppose not that Pony People are real, but that _you_ seem to be on a first name basis with them.”

The witcher, now more interested in his meal than the bard’s shock, huffed with shrug. “They respect horses.”

————————————

Jaskier dug into his food, hungry, if a bit sulky. You traveled with a man for months, looked after one another through life and death situations and you would think at some point the nut would crack. Perhaps a bit of the meaty goodness would slip out. Desires. Hopes. Dreams. Hell, a conversation about a good book or a dirty joke, perhaps? But no. Apparently that was all saved for witch women liable to kill him or diminutive horsemen he’d believed were from nursery stories or farmer’s lore.

And this town was… well. Rough and basic. Few stayed in the tavern once the evening meal was done, and those who did looked like elders and weathered mountain travelers. No young or fair faces to distract the bard and he saw no point in trying to strike up interest in his singing, the pickings looked so slim. But at least no one took offense to Geralt’s presence. That was refreshing.

“I think I’ll turn in with Roach.” Jaskier drained his second mug and pushed up from the table. “I bid you goodnight, Master of Whickering.”

Geralt only grunted, unfolding one of their maps in the lamplight.

As Jaskier sleepily made his way to the door, he stepped aside to let two small forms pass him. The Equil men, bobbed and nodded at him amiably before spying and making a b-line for the wolf.

“Lovely.” The bard muttered. “Have a delightful evening discussing oats and manure or what have you.”

——————————————

“They brought you a contract?” Jaskier was breakfasting on leftover tavern bread spread with some of the Equil cheese as Geralt saddled Roach. Damn it if it wasn’t excellent stuff though…

“Something’s killing their livestock. Injured a boy. What they described sounds like a wyvern.” Geralt fastened the girth with a final tug.

“Their teeny livestock would be a tea-time snack to a wyvern. More likely it’s a plain old mountain wolf, don’t you think?”

Amber eyes rolled. “Then you can kill it.”

“Ha. I would never deprive you. Besides, what do I know? You say wyvern. Wyvern it is.”

The Equil’s village was about four days travel on foot, but the men had negotiated with Geralt to meet a representative party where the foot hills gave way to their secluded valley.The attacks on their village were roughly every ten days, which gave the witcher time to approach and prepare before beginning his hunt proper.

Jaskier was not thrilled that there would be the bald rocky low mountain pass and then a salt marsh fen to cross in getting to the rendezvous. “Do you think their travel time estimate was based on their little short legs?”

Geralt refused to take his bait. “If we’re early, we camp and wait.”

“I don’t understand. Those two seemed fine with the village. Selling there and such. Why didn’t they get someone there to help before now?”

“I doubt they could.”

“Pshaw. Coin is coin and money is money.”

“And how many dwarves have been double crossed for money? People think small means insignificant.”

Jaskier strummed his lute absently as he thought. “I think the shear amount dwarves often have, what with the mining and all, it lures out the worst. The greedy. But a fair payment for honest work? I stand by my statement. Money is money.”

The wolf was curiously silent as he stalked on, leading Roach.

“Geralt? They are paying us, are they not?”

“Me. They are paying me. And we’ve agreed upon terms.”

“ _Might I inquire as to those terms_?”

“No.”

By late afternoon the first day, they had crossed about half of the rocky terrain. Jaskier was wisely saving his allotment of complaints for the fen, where there would be sucking mud and mosquitoes — much more worthy things to bitch about. Still… he’d run through his usual exercises of chords, and quietly played through a practice of two of his latest works, softly humming the lyrics to himself. They’d paused for water and refreshment at midday, allowing Roach some sparse grazing time, and now Jaskier had been good and quiet long enough and the silence was eating him up…

“So where does a witcher learn, ah, Equilese?”

“An old stablehand at Kaer Morhen.”

“And that was enough for fluency?” Jaskier did his habitual routine of taking the lead and walking backwards as he strummed so he could face the wolf.

“Like enough. I never said I was fluent.”

“It just seems — ow, fuck!” He stumbled and righting himself, winced at his right ankle he’d just turned on a stone painfully. “Damn.” He hobbled experimentally, grimacing. “Lovely. Perfect.” He faced front and limped on doggedly, now watching his every step. “This is what I get for trying to inject a little discussion, a little diversion into our days.”

A hand gripped his shoulder. “Sit.”

The bard was surprised, but he dropped down on a rock and let Geralt shuck off his boot to examine his foot. “I just turned it a little. It’s alright.”

The wolf huffed and sighed, then whistled Roach to come close.He tucked the bard’s boot through one of the bedroll straps and rummaged in a saddle bag. “Drink this.”

Jaskier blinked, but didn’t argue. He drained the small ampule handed him, chalky and bitter.

“Up.”

The bard blinked again, and rose awkwardly on his good booted foot. “I can hardly go on half shod…” He quieted at the eye roll this received, before realizing Geralt was holding Roach for him.

Oh.

_Oh._

He gripped the wolf’s shoulder, eyes darting from the saddle to Geralt’s impatient stare, bewildered.

“Hurry up before I change my mind.”

Jaskier grabbed the saddle and hefted himself gracelessly. Geralt gave his ass a shove and the bard clambered into place. But before he could take the reigns, Geralt lifted them over Roach’s head to carry as he stalked on, leaving Jaskier to grip the pommel, one booted foot in a stirrup.

“The Equils are a remote, peace loving insular community,” Geralt began as they continued. “You should know some things about their forms and ways for diplomacy. They worship a horse spirit from the sea and mountain, because their ponies come from the wild migratory animals and allow them to farm inhospitable earth…”

There was no monster anywhere near, yet the bard found his heart was in his throat even as his face flushed warm and pink. Jaskier had so many questions, but he kept his mouth shut and just listened…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have zero notes on this. Zero. Mostly I'm patting my back that I'm not letting actual horse puns into it. Also, to the fan artist that did the cartoon of Geralt snuggling Roach in bed like a teddy bear while Yennefer rolls her eyes? I'm so sorry I can't seem to find you again, but I <3 you. :)

* * *

By the time twilight fell and they were looking to stop and make camp, whatever brew Geralt had given Jaskier had made him dozy and relaxed. His ankle didn’t hurt at all though, so mission accomplished there.

Swaying in the saddle, the bard considered Roach beneath him.

There was no love lost between him and the horse.Seeing the wolf’s possessive streak for the beast, Jaskier at first had thought he should ingratiate himself to the animal. If you liked someone, you liked their favorites as well, right? Like an extension of self. But any casual attempt to stroke or even so much as introduce himself to the mare was met with the same muttered warning: “Leave Roach alone.”

So he left Roach alone.

And from there, the attachment seemed even more baffling. Yes, the mare was a solid dependable charge, but was there something he was missing? A spark of personality he didn’t see? It’s not like horses were especially affectionate — not like a sweet spaniel or, oh god, that parrot who’d been the darling of one of his court dalliances.She and the bird were a matched set. Loud, funny, volatile… He was still missing a small notch from his ear from the stupid bird, while its mistress insisted it was giving him a kiss. Loads of character, those two.

But despite her decided lack of personality, Roach was warm and steady beneath him. …And not at all likely to shriek or scream in his ear. That was definitely something.

“Here. This’ll do.” Geralt stopped them near a rocky outcrop where they could camp between two boulders as wind breaks. The wolf whistled his horse close.

Sliding down to land on his good foot, Jaskier ventured a little pat on the mare’s neck. “Thank you old girl.”

The mare side-stepped and snapped at him, making the bard stumble back.

Geralt caught Jaskier on one arm and firmed his grip on the horse’s bridle with the other hand. “Leave Roach alone.” Came the growl, but it was definitely tinged with amusement.

…And they were about to do business with a whole village of these creature’s worshipers? Delightful.

When the wolf turned his back, Jaskier stuck his tongue out at the animal. “Bitchy old nag.”

Both mindful of the bard’s ankle, Geralt gathered firewood, made camp and tended Roach while Jaskier, seated on a rock, worked to start the fire and cobble together dinner.

With his now muzzy reflexes, this was harder than it should have been. By the fourth try with his flint, he was cursing under his breath, but finally got spark to tinder and nursed it into a flame.

What was he doing?

He could be at some court, singing epics and bright standards, clean and warm, safely and discretely tucked among the skirts and breeches of bored gentle peoples’ whose days and nights he brightened.

He did not need to be here, cold and dirty, on the backside of nowhere, doggedly trailing a man whose horse he couldn’t even get in the good graces of…

It was his artist’s heart, he knew. Ambition for fame. That creative drive to be the originator. The poet. To bring folk what they’d never heard before and see with new fresh eyes…

Ug.

It must be the medicine making him slow and maudlin. And there was only so much of even his own bullshit musings he could stomach. Why the witcher tolerated him tagging along was a mystery, as Jaskier was no powerful mage like Yennefer, no brother of the wolf from Kaer Morhen… Hell, he wasn’t even much of a scholar with useful knowledge — Geralt was the one with infinite patience and discipline to read and study and meditate. Jaskier held little practical use and no authority compared to the wolf’s peers. And despite his bluster that their arrangement was a business partnership — beneficial to him for material for epic adventure ballads — he knew even that was utter tosh.

If it wasn’t, then why did he forever think about the lines of Geralt’s scarred back from each time he cleaned his wounds? Or dwell on how he’d looked in that simple doublet at court, his pale hair (clean and silky for once!) set off magnificently by the midnight blue… Why had he spent the quieter moments of their travel just this afternoon replaying the feel of Geralt’s touch as he removed his boot, or the firm strike of his hand on his ass as he boosted him into the saddle?

_Oh god Julian…_ He chided himself as he cut up some of the dried venison into their soup, _You’re in very serious trouble._

By morning his ankle was much better, only feeling a little bruised if he pressed here and there. They ate the remainder of the bread and cheese for breakfast and Geralt dissolved some of the strange marmalade into hot water and handed Jaskier a steaming tin cup.

He sniffed it curiously before sipping. “That’s actually… very good. Like pears and cinnamon, but floral…”

Geralt hummed, a sound almost like a big cat’s rumble, and wrapped his hands around his warm mug against the dawn chill. “Small pleasures.” He agreed.

Jaskier smiled into his cup and tucked that contented sounding growl into his memory store beside the blue doublet.

This set the tone for rest of the journey. The fen was no where near what Jaskier had dreaded.There was an old hard-packed road and the weather had been dry, so mud was no issue. There were masses of a tufted grass with feathery dried out blooms that, when Geralt gathered them into a dense club and burned, produced smoke that kept biting insects at bay (mostly). The three smelled like an herbal campfire, and Jaskier’s sinuses were mostly closed, but they weren’t covering in itchy welts. And there was ample dried peat, packed down and easy to cut and carry, which made starting a fire easier.

Eventually the fen gave way to a vast, flat valley. The expanse of it, late in the season as it was, seemed painted in a soft lemon yellow as miles and miles of grassland stretched out before them. Here and there were small copses of low growing dense trees, their spread branches twisting in fantastic shapes from years of sweeping winds.In the distance as they were, to Jaskier, they looked like miniatures he’d seen in a watchmaker’s window once.

Geralt pointed to the closest clump that lay some miles down the road. “That’s the rendezvous.” He pulled up Roach and dismounted. “Fetch some of those. As many as you can.” He waved before wading in to the grass on the far side of the road himself.

The bard was at a loss until he saw what the wolf was gathering.

Flowers?

Beneath the waist-high grasses grew wirey vining plants with small cornflower blue blossoms. Jaskier tugged at one and found he had to apply his dagger to cut the tough woody stem.

The flowers were scant and it took him some poking and milling to gather a small fistful.He chanced a glance at Geralt’s progress and swallowed. It was incongruous, this tall stout figure in scuffed black leather armor, lost in plucking posies…

Jaskier shook it off and focused on the task at hand. Moving a bit deeper into the grass, he spotted a few white blossoms growing in small dry broom heads and added those to his bouquet.

Returning to the road, Geralt inspected Jaskier’s haul with a grunt of ‘good’ before tucking all the flowers into the bedroll strap and continuing to the meeting place on foot, Roach in tow.

Beneath the tree where they were to meet the Equil party was like a great cavern, and the dark branches and dense canopy and some spread low like elbows resting on the ground as they stretched from the ancient trunk. In the center was a cleared spot; a regular campsite with rock fire pit and swept packed earth that had clearly been used many times — probably by the crew sent to the mountain pass village for market days. Here Geralt left Jaskier to set up their own settlement, focusing instead on Roach.

While the bard built the fire and hung the canvas for their shelter, the wolf stripped all the tack from his horse and brushed her down vigorously. He cleaned and oiled her hooves, even though they were already well shod and in good condition, then took the oiled rag and polished her coat until it gleamed. Roach, unperturbed, simply ate her dinner.

Jaskier bit his lip and continued sorting their remaining food stores, realizing he’d been staring at how hard Geralt had been rubbing circles into what he guessed was the horse’s shoulder? Did horses have shoulders? Was that what it was called or did it have some barnyard term? His imagination was trying to apply the action to his own upper back — which he found a painfully delicious thought — when he caught himself.

_I am not jealous of a horse._

_I am not jealous of a horse._

_I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, loving bee to many flowers, generous and open as spring rain or blue sky to the pleasures of all, and I am not jealous of some dung-plopping hoofed nag…_

He filled a pan with water and started it to boil, before looking over again and finding that now Geralt was carefully combing through Roach’s mane and making simple plaits that he tucked the weedy blossoms in.

Jaskier sighed. Anyone merciful would have knocked him in the head by now.

_I am 100% jealous of a horse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments! That was super encouraging! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* Hey, it was a busy couple weeks but I'm back at it.

* * *

**Jaskier:**

As he worked on assembling soup, Jaskier couldn't help it. He watched Geralt. Once the wolf had Roach groomed and decked out to his satisfaction, he foraged a little before bringing his finds over to join the bard cooking.

“How’s your foot?” He began to peel a couple tubers he’d dug up to add to the pot.

“All better.” The bard offered a smile, but Geralt was eyes down, focused on his knife work. It was so simple and domestic a task, Jaskier’s eyes lingered, a warm thrill to watch this unseen. Maybe part of the warmth was the question. Geralt asking about his welfare. “So, ah, refresh me again before they get here — what you were saying earlier?”

The wolf sliced the peeled roots, letting them drop into the pot. “They don’t have kings and queens and hierarchy like that, short of deference and respect to their village elders. We need to approach and welcome them together to show parity and that we’re both happy they’re here. It’s customary when receiving guests to offer water and a token of food to their horses first.” Here he looked at their store sacks by the fire ring. “And the host presents their whole spread to share.”

Kneeling over to stir the soup pot, Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “The whole thing? What’ll we ration for the hunt?”

“It’s a gesture. Open-ness and trust, like not carrying live steel into a celebration.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

This earned him a withering look.

“Right well, and that’s come in dead useful. But still. I don’t fancy starving and having to eat wyvern later.”

“There will be plenty.”

“Plenty of wyvern?”

Another dour look and a growl. “Plenty of something.”

Jaskier quickly busied himself laying out their remaining food. “Lovely.”

**Geralt:**

Despite his bitching, Geralt wasn’t worried about how the bard would handle their guests.

Jaskier picked up and bent to all manner of social niceties frequently. Geralt knew that from his history and had watched him pull it off firsthand.He might poke fun, complain or feign exasperation, but there was some truth to the man’s name. Like a dandelion clock he could float where the wind took him and falling lightly, take root and thrive. Adaptable. A survivor.

So, yes, the meeting tonight would be fine.

But the hunt coming, as always, was another story.

Knowing the bard’s resourcefulness should have eased the wolf’s gut worry every time the idiot traipsed after him into night ghast territory or a kikimora’s dark lagoon… But it didn’t. Geralt found himself stashing Jaskier at taverns distracted with quill and paper, or slipping out to begin his contract hunts while the bard still slept. Without such options, he frequently built up a fire at camp and instructed him to stay close to it and keep it fed and high.Most things he hunted would avoid roaring flame.

And while the wolf grumped and growled, he couldn’t really claim he minded the teasing or the talk, as he’d long since given up trying to drive Jaskier away. There was something to that— something a witcher was not supposed to feel — but here he was literally on the backside of nowhere, almost to one of the remotest settlements and the damned bard was still stuck to his cloak tails like a cocklebur, so he had to own it: He was lonely without Jaskier around.

Right.

So he had a friend. Unorthodox. Ill-advised. But not completely unheard of.

What was the hitch?

It was that _worry_.

Thoughts of the stupid soft fop ripped and gutted by talons and teeth, his blood staining and clotting the dust of the rough road… Thoughts of the bards eyes, glazed and dull and sightless, drawing flies and carrion birds… These images sprang to mind when Geralt momentarily lost the trail during a hunt, or sometimes interrupted his dreams. What had been some vague nameless irritation before their little adventure with the Djinn that almost killed Jaskier had fully formed into these delightfully specific visions now.

And once this contract was concluded, it would be time to return to Kaer Morhen before the cold and snow set in.

Which, while then he could be rid of Jaskier by leaving him in the relative safety of court, THEN he’d be beset with the lesser worry of the idiot idly bedding the mistress, husband or love of the wrong person. Perhaps an angry, jealous, well-armed and quick person… Certainly it was for his friend’s safety and nothing to do with Jaskier’s many _dalliances_ that this whole scenario troubled Geralt.

Ug.

Truly this was 100% why Roach made better company.

**Jaskier:**

“I think it’s showtime.” The bard nodded down the road where some riders were approaching, and straightened up.

Jaskier had been listening as Geralt explained to him over their days of travel about the Equils beliefs and customs. It wasn’t even a chore; their culture was curious but interesting. He emphasized that the Equil people were accustomed to dealing with some outsiders, so if they ignored ceremony, the offered contract would most likely still be desired and honored.But it seemed to Jaskier that Geralt very much did not want to insult them or appear ignorant. He wanted to do things correctly and show them respect.

And while decorating a horse and whatnot seemed an awful lot of fuss — and normally the bard’s urge would be to needle the wolf about it and have a little fun — but yet……this _mattered_ to Geralt. On some deeper level, whether in tone or demeanor, it was apparent this was important to the witcher, and so it became important to Jaskier to not disappoint him.

So now presently was his test: Jaskier’s chance to show he’d listened and remembered.As the riders approached, he and Geralt each took a water skin and pan, and raised a hand in greeting and bowed to the group before pouring a drink for the animals and setting a little handful of Roach’s oats before each.

There were four in the group, all wrapped head to toe in travel cloaks and scarfs like the two at the market had been, with only their eyes visible. They all quietly made little seated bows to their hosts before one slid down from their pony. 

_Must be the elder_ , Jaskier thought, as the others waited in deference before dismounting as well. The party entered the camp, making quiet note of the food stuffs spread out, the soup on the fire, and then there was much oo-ing and ah-ing over Roach.

Jaskier tried really hard not to roll his eyes at that — and it was a feat of resolve. The Equil’s rustic ponies were infinitely prettier than themare.All of them had shaggy coats and thick double manes with heavy forelocks falling in their eyes. They all had ornamental braids with a few flowers and sprays of red berries in them. Two were rich brown and dun paints with huge splashes of white on their faces while the other two were white-bodied with dappled silver and black dots all over them. Showy animals like that would have been very novel and expensive in any large town. Still, the Equil party seemed quite interested and impressed with Geralt’s plain chestnut mare, who was wandering around dripping blue flowers while she grazed near their camp. The elder approached Roach and set down a small split stone fruit in front of her and bowed.

The mare leisurely made her way over and lipped it curiously before eating it. At this, all the quiet forms ceased, and the group exploded into eager chatter — which mostly seemed to be more questions about Roach, judging from Geralt’s pointing and responses. Jaskier couldn’t be 100% sure since he didn’t understand a word of any of it, but his luck would be yes, of course the nag is the center of attention…

He sighed and busied himself pouring drinks for the group.

When the small talk dissolved, Geralt led the party to the fire, and here everyone settled down around the display of food. The Equils bowed before they sat, and at last, relaxing, dropped their hoods and unwrapped their scarves.

Jaskier blinked, struck dumb, before he recovered and, plastering on a smile, passed cups around.

Under their head and face coverings, the Equil people were just as piebald and parti-colored as their ponies. The eldest, a wrinkled frothy haired woman was dark as a walnut hull, with eyes to match, but with a white diamond shaped slash down the right side of her face. A second patch of stark white started on her brow and striped back over her left ear, and where it fell, the hair also was snow white in contrast to the silver and black mix of the rest.

In his turn, Geralt bowed to her and shucked off his leather armor before he sat across from her and raised his glass.

The others were also a mottled mix of skin color. A young man Jaskier learned was a shepherd had a white patch over his brow and eyes just like his pony, and his pupils were glass white, devoid of pigment too. He grinned broadly at Geralt, pointing, and the witcher ran a hand through his own pale hair, dropping his gaze shyly with a sheepish smile.

For some reason that made them roar, and the woman reached across to grip and shake his shoulder playfully.

Jaskier had no idea what they were saying, but he understood.

At court, he’d seen a young woman lose her work position for having vitiligo. And in another town he’d seen a man with albinism that had been stoned to death as a witcher. Dwarves already had a rough go of it without an added layer of being different, so it made sense the diminutive Equil people hid their skin to outsiders.

But Geralt? He was huge.Powerful. A monster hunter who could help them.

And he was visibly marked as different from head to toe, just like them.

**Geralt:**

Once the Equils were seated and began opening their bags, Geralt watched Jaskier, hiding his amusement. As their guests unwrapped and added salted meat, cheese, biscuits, dried fruit and several wine skins to the food pool, Geralt saw the bard go wide-eyed and he couldn’t help but throw him a smirk. Plenty of wyvern indeed.

They came no where near eating all of it, and at the meal’s conclusion, the party waved it away. This was their customary way of passing on supplies.

Now, with the elder smoking a mallow pipe and the others growing quiet, Geralt turned the subject to their livestock problem.

The young shepherd was a witness and described the size and age of the young lambs and kids that had been taken and how the attacks occurred just after the sun went down.

Geralt listened carefully, offering a few questions. Any disturbance on the ground? Yes, a few deep scrape marks. Drawing them with a stick in the dirt, the shepherd outlined two divots, about a foot apart, comprised of three deep rows. 

Was his drawing close to the actual size of the marks in his pasture? Yes.

No other tracks or crumpled breaks in the vegetation or grass surrounding it. All evidence said the attacks came from the air.

Being unable to graze their animals over night in the upper valley was putting a strain on their livestock food supply. They separated out the young as quickly as they could ween them to keep inside when it was dark. That was when the attacks began on adult animals. A boy watching a herd of goats actually saw the beast when he tried to stop it taking a doe.

“He saw red scales.” One of the other men, a village witness, told Geralt.“It’s wingtips cut him across the chest and it was gone.”

“Did it manage to steal the animal?”

The man blanched a little. “Like an eagle with too large a fish. It floundered, and ripped the animal in half to make its escape.”

“And the boy’s cuts?”

“Festered for many weeks.” The elder said gravely. “We’d not seen their like. But they eventually healed.”

Geralt nodded and took the stick from the shepherd, sketching out a serpentine shape in the dirt, then adding two taloned legs and a pair of wings. “It sounds like a young wyvern. They leave their nest and try to claim territory near a food source. As it grows, it would continue to attack more often and for larger animals.”

“Can it be driven off?”

“Not where it’s already fed.They’re stubborn and imprint that way. They’re also venomous — likely why the boy’s injuries were difficult to treat.”

**Jaskier:**

Not being able to understand the conversation, Jaskier picked up his lute absently while Geralt finished his detective’s inquiry. But after a few moments, he realized the party was quiet. He looked up and in the failing light, he could see a row of mild, and yes, _expectant_ faces watching him fiddle with the instrument.

Right… An audience?

He raised his eyebrows and waved an open palm to his lute, askance.

Their immediate smiles and soft encouraging claps were a clear affirmative.

“Yes, certainly, of course…” He plucked a few notes, and adjusted the tuning, trying to think quickly. What to play?

It seemed silly to try a ballad that wasn’t in their language, and whether they understood or not, he definitely wasn’t doing one of the bawdy pieces so popular on the road.

Something modest… traditional…

He began ‘Hart in Spring’, one of the more elegant and light rustics.It had been ages since he’d played it, but after the first few bars he caught the feel again and dug in, tucking his head down lost in focus when it came to the more complex fingerings…

At the songs end, the small party broke into eager applause, all chattering and waving at him.

Geralt smirked. “They’d like another.”

“I gathered that.” Jaskier preened, smiling and nodding to their guests. Their enthusiasm melted warm and giddy through the bard’s middle like a strong and welcome shot of brandy. He missed performing for an appreciative crowd — something those spoiled so-and-so’s at court could rarely be called.

Wracking his brain for another piece, he brightened and struck up ‘Maeve’s Market Day’. That was a jaunty piece, popular with kids who you could encourage to stomp along with the rhythm of the chorus.He felt he was taking a risk, going this cheerful when the Equils were here on such serious business, but their guests acted like they had never heard the song before, and were grinning at the stomping bits and rapt when he did the drumming of Maeve’s pony’s hooves during the bridge, striking his thumbs on the lute’s hollow body.

When he finished, his audience stood, laughing and clapping, the elder woman sweeping over to clasp his shoulders and pat his back.

The bard felt himself blush.

Here, the elder woman said something to Geralt then to Jaskier, bowing a little and waving to her party. Jaskier didn’t need a translation to understand that she was breaking things up, politely bidding them an early goodnight so the pair could begin their hunt bright and early.

................

“Geralt?”

There was no answer in the dark. Jaskier rolled tighter in his bedroll against the cold, undeterred.

“Geralt? I think you should admit it…”

A weary growl came from the other side of the low burning fire. “Admit what?”

“You want to retire here. I heard you say as much to Roach. A little cottage on the seaside, just you and her. You want to be a Pony Person — Ow! You shit!”

The bard bucked and floundered away trying to shake out the live coal that had been flicked at him.

Still, he caught a glimpse of a smile before the wolf rolled his backside to him and tried again to sleep.

_Worth it._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an odd experiment to swap back and fourth in perspectives. I dunno... I'd hoped to get through the arc of the hunt itself, but this stretched longer, and I'm pretty beat this week and felt like posting what I had to keep the ball rolling, you know?  
> I have an outline, but I'm also just letting this one mold like clay a bit and evolve? Comments are always welcome. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I try to make good on that 'adventure' tag! I also tried to sort of shoe-horn it into the timeline of the Netflix series so it kinda fits that canon. Kinda.

* * *

**Jaskier:**

“We’ll climb the rise on this side. Head down into the valley there, for the village afterwards.” Geralt pointed up the foothills to a rough rock face miles above them. “It’s most likely dug a den and is nesting in that break, above where the run off comes out the divide.”

Jaskier was trying to determine if this detailed announcement was for him or Roach. Judging from the low conspiratorial voice, it appeared to be for the horse. The wolf rarely discussed strategy with him.

It was about noon, and the bard was already out of breath from their steady march up hill. He squinted at the position of the sun. “And we need to do this by dark?”

“Before dark.”

“Can we do that?”

“You and Roach don’t have to. Only I have to.”

Jaskier slugged some water and hurried after them, picking up his pace to match the horse.

Earlier, Geralt had announced, while they divided Equil cheese and more of the little stone fruits the villagers had given Roach between them, that when this contract was done, Jaskier could follow him back to the mountain pass village, but from there the wolf would begin his lone travel north to Kaer Morhen for the winter months.

The thought lanced through the bard like a physical pain, hollowing him out as it went.

How many seasons had he done this now since he’d met Geralt?

Too damned many. And his heart knew what it meant.

It meant four cold months of not knowing if Geralt made it safely, followed by an open empty blue sky of luck needed for him to cross his path again in the spring. Other’s might call it destiny, but Jaskier was too adept at eavesdropping in courts and village squares for word of the white wolf’s path to believe that. If he allowed for destiny, next he’d be reading horoscopes and tossing bones…

All of it also assumed Geralt would stay on his current avoidant do-or-die course trying to stay out of the larger kingdoms warmongering and jockeying for power and land. Jaskier had been present at the wedding feast when Geralt had stumbled into essentially being the godfather of the princess of Cintra. Ok. More than godfather. And the responsibility preyed on the witcher, Jaskier knew that, but he couldn’t argue with the wolf’s rationale. His god child did not know him. Was certainly happier with her own grandmother and people, and knowing the cunning of the Queen, if Geralt had tried to go lay claim as the child’s guardian through the Law of Surprise, he would hardly be met with smiles and open arms of welcome…

Damned dangerous to be a witcher and damned dangerous to be entangled in the familial nets of the bloody royals. But Jaskier would rather worry about Geralt outfoxing brute monsters than having to outfox scheminghumans with a grudge.

So they would part ways after this and Geralt would go back to Kaer Morhen, and the worst part of separating for the winter was if some dark thing felled the hunter in that time, Jaskier would be listening for word and seeking scattered bread crumbs of his trail next spring in vain.

Gods. Piss. Shit. Fuck. No. No and no.

He couldn’t continue like this, could he?There was a silly part of his brain that knew — _knew_ he was wallowing in the situation. Building it into a tragic unrequited romance in his head, perhaps fodder for his best song yet.

That bit of his brain was equal parts naive 16-year-old and ug… …carnival barker looking for an angle. But after seasons of picking monster guts from hair, armor, lute strings and lord knew what else, fording swollen rivers, crossing dank swamps, cheerfully eating molded hard tack or worse or going hungry and spending more nights than not sleeping rough on the cold hard ground, it was becoming painfully clear whatever was going on here was dangerously deeper…

Dear lord. He needed to have some scrap of mercy on himself…

It was past time to face this.

_You have to tell him Julian._

Just the thought made him squirm with a sick anxious twist in his stomach and gave his chest a hollow ache.

_And you have to do it before he starts for Kaer Morhen._

Further up the climb, the plants and trees grew sparser and Geralt cast around, examining the landscape closely. He studied some damage to a few yellowing bushes, then stalked up an incline and kicked at the soil where a streak of lighter dirt ran between two rocks. Breaking it up, he picked a handful of it up in one gauntlet.

Jaskier sat on a nearby rock catching his breath. “What is that? Mineral sediment? Some sort of unusual clay deposit?”

Geralt huffed, the corner of his mouth hitching up. “Yes. Clay.”

“Oh. Oh no…” Dawning horror rose on the bard’s face as he watched the wolf crumble the white clods in his hand and scent it carefully. “Dear god. You’re smelling dragon poop aren’t you?”

“Guano.”

“I don’t need a technical term! How the hell do I fit shit-sniffing into a ballad? Really Geralt, maybe a witcher is their own worst enemy on public relations! You might at least help me out a little!”

“And how would you track them?”

“I don’t know! Footprints perhaps? Carving their initials on trees? Hearing other’s report on their sterling reputations — that doesn’t include handling and smelling other’s dung!”

“You’ve clearly never studied the mating habits of wyverns.”

“No! And PLEASE DO NOT EDUCATE ME. I’ve had the displeasure of learning some of the mating habits of very pervy rich land barons and that’ll do me just fine thankyouverymuch…”

They continued into the afternoon, Geralt dismounting from Roach to go on foot, studying the ground, the plants and various rock crevices.

It occurred to Jaskier that once this beast was killed, they would be returning with the evidence to the Equils, and Geralt’s attention would be consumed by his fellow horse fanatics.

Maybe now was the time to try to tell him?

It would be better to say what he had to say when it was just the two of them, right?

_Right.Heart on a platter. You can do this Julian._

Hmm… But probably better to do it after he finished off this errand? You don’t want to distract him from dangerous work, after all.

_Too right. Monster down, everyone is happy, and you can make, er, you can… Well, you can tell him how you feel. Or maybe show him. Perhaps get him drunk? Or you…You could get really drunk, just to make it a bit easier and give you a bit of plausible deniability?_

Oooo… That could work. Plausible deniability sounded excellent.

He smiled with relief. So good to have a plan!

“A little higher and we should make camp for you. Roach and I will go the rest until she can’t climb it.”

“What about there?” Jaskier pointed through some scrub to a broken over-hang of rock up a few feet.

Geralt hadn’t noticed this, but he readily strode to the cliff feature, curious.

Up and over the small rise, the ground angled down into a scraped out half cave beneath a shelf of rock.

“See? It’s covered. Out of the wind. Even reasonably flat… Huh, and it even looks like the ground is clear. I’m certain someone’s used this before.” Jaskier straightened, aiming a smug look at the witcher.

“Do you see signs of a fire?”

“No, but wind and rain, right? Probably washed the soot. You can’t tell me someone hasn’t been here.”

Geralt kicked a rough object over towards Jaskier’s foot. “Or some _thing_.”

The bard looked down at the bleached sheep’s skull on his toe, and quickly shuffled backwards.

The wolf shrugged. “This was probably an early den site before it outgrew it. It’d probably be fine for shelter, if we didn’t need to worry about being cornered.”

Jaskier swallowed. “Right.”

And further still up the mountain, they crested just above the area of the cliff shelf and found a bizarre warren oftall boulders.Clearly there had been large rock slide and these were the shattered fragments that had dropped. Roach and Geralt both poked around between them, covering the flattest area and then studying the incline they’d come up plus other escape routes down.

“Between these, it’s tight, but it’d be harder for something to come from the air.”

Jaskier nodded, some warm wiggly part of him eagerly lapping up that this whole speculation was Geralt concerned for his protection.

“And to dodge around and get behind if something comes on the ground.”

Jaskier peered between the boulders, trying to assess them with the witcher’s eyes. “That makes sense. Geralt, what exactly does wyvern venom do to you?”

The wolf began unloading Roach. “Enters the blood. Makes the extremities tingle, then go numb.”

Jaskier looked over from gathering wood for a fire. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Then they fall off. I’ve heard it’s fingers first, then the nose… ears… S’not the worst part though.”

The bard blanched, “Worse part?”

“Then you turn inside out.”

Jaskier threw a piece of firewood at him.

* * *

**Geralt:**

As late as it was by the time they found a suitable place for Jaskier to make camp, Geralt didn’t spend much time helping him. He hewed down some branches from a wind fallen tree and pulled out a thick dried stump for the bard to ensure there was something substantial in the fire, but then he had to continue tracking while there was daylight.

About half a mile further up, he released Roach. Here the wash-out of the animal’s scat was almost like a white wash trail up and between the rocks to its lair.He climbed hand to hand roughly up a face, over several boulders, until looking down a fissure, he saw darkness.

Edging closer, he cased the opening for the best approach, and scented the air.

Sour. Musk. A powdery smell of dry rot.

Easing down the fissure to the floor of the opening, his boot crushed something papery like a dusty wasp’s nest. Slowly he eased his foot off the crumbling mess and realized it was a pellet. Like an owl, the reptile spat up logs of what it couldn’t digest. Hair. Bone. As it fell apart around his heel, Geralt could make out a twist of horsehair rope and the delicate bones of a mummified hand. The animal wasn’t just hunting the Equil’s pastures: it must have also discovered fisherman’s boats, out on the water like sitting ducks.

He silently drew his sword, and edged a little closer, head cocked, straining for information, for sound.

_There._

It was in there.

The witcher listened, trying to gauge size and give his eyes a moment to adjust. But the sound was certain. The rasp and hiss of rhythmic exhalation. Based on the size of the den, he estimated three seasons of age. Young, but still sizable, especially if it was attempting to prey on adult animals.

For many beasts, the den space was a good trap. Young solitary animals hadn’t worked out to dig multiple entrances like hive creatures such as gasts did. One could corner and be done quick. But a wyvern was different. Its wings could cut, so yes, boxing it in tight where it couldn’t maneuver them might help, but both its fangs and the barb on its tail were venomous, so dodging either end in a dark and cramped space wasn’t ideal.

He judged it better to leave an option open. Hug the wall and guard his back until he could lay eyes on it. If it dug in, it couldn’t be helped, but if it tried for the open air, he should get a decent opening at its neck and belly.And if it made it outside, he was confident that the beast’s territorial nature and inexperience would keep it on him trying to defend its territory. He’d found that to be the case before, especially if you pissed them off. Even if it did take flight, the Equils had agreed to keep everyone and everything inside at night, and it wasn’t like wyverns could blow fire. That left Jaskier and Roach, but they had camp flames and some cover, and they were close enough he could get to them for a ground fight.

Sword up, pressed to the left hand wall, he edged in and around the first bend. The raw sawing of its breath grew louder, but remained steady, even.

He had about an hour of daylight left and in general, ornithosaurs grew more active hours into full dark when the temperature dropped. Go slow and stealthy and it might be possible to catch it completely unaware.

There was another twist in the cavern and the ground sloped down suddenly. It would be just down there, in the cool nest it had dug out.

Gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath, Geralt took one hand from his sword and touched the stone behind his back, rubbing at it and hissing _igni_ under his breath until a faint blue light slowly grew. He listened, again but there was no change in the breath sound.

Good.

One slow silent step and he was around the bend, keeping his footing sure on the incline.

Before him was coils. Coils upon coils upon coils, its red scales appearing bruise purple in the fox fire blue light he conjured.

A black tongue flickered out far to Geralt’s right, but then baleful yellow slits opened to glare at him from the left hand wall.

“Fuck.”

There were two of them.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> **obligatory 'toss a comment to your fic-er' joke here**   
> :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I draw a lot of monsters, so I drew a wyvern for this. Um, I've also been accused of having all my creatures, even supposedly scary ones, turn out sort of cute, so consider yourself warned.

* * *

This was not good.

He’d learned about this, but it wasn’t something he ever expected to actually run across.

Normally a wyvern laid a clutch of two or three eggs, with only the strongest hatchling surviving, usually by consuming its siblings. A witcher might have to deal with a territorial mother protecting its young as a nestling the first few weeks, but the young itself was most always singular unless it was still in the egg. In very rare cases — as in not recorded in his lifetime — a single egg produced twins, bonded. These would learn to hunt in coordination, able to anticipate and work in cunning synch.

Just his luck, he’d chanced upon the fabled rare pair, twin brothers.

All of his strategy shifted to keeping them in the den. If they made it to the cave mouth and stayed on him, they could attack in the round: block him from covering his back. Or worse, they could simply flee in either direction, divide his attention, take flight, and most certainly discover his camp for revenge.

Fuck.

Now they’d scented him and were drawing themselves into a knot further back in the rock, one head high and the other low. In the dim blue light he couldn’t see how their wings were oriented or where their poison barbed tails were.

_Don’t be drawn to the head._

He made a sudden swing for the body, roaring, and the tactic worked. Both animals immediately puffed, heads back and slashed the air wild with their tails.

Geralt ducked and parried, but lost valuable feet backing up from the den. But he could see them tenting their wings defensively, making them more awkward in the confined space.

Good.

Younger animals fought more wild and unpredictable. They hadn’t built tells and predictable habits out of what worked in the past. They just tried any move that popped in their head or reacted.

_Don’t waste your time trying to anticipate._

Maybe if he pissed them off or startled them enough they might lose their bond and not work in unison

He roared and blustered forward again like a madman, and swept his blade high as though to take out the closest hovering wing.

A tail whipped at him, and his boot came down, stomping on it only a foot from the venomous stinger, sufficient to block it.

Both animals rose up, coils pouring forward as they slashed the air with their talons, then alternately struck and snapped with both heads over and over, forcing Geralt quickly back.

So much for shock and awe. It saw his strategy and played it right back at him. The witcher had to duck and dodge, block, parry and pray for a glimmer of an opening. The pair feinted, snapped and charged, steadily working him back.

When one of them could see and smell open air, it must have gotten excited, because it struck wild repeatedly with its tail, trying to skewer the threat. On its second lunge, Geralt got a clear shot and had the barb off and a decent cut to its body on his back swing.

At that, all hell broke loose.

The injured one exploded, writhing and twisting, using its wings like hooks to scale up the rocks of the fissure.

Geralt let it, focusing on trying to head off the other one. With the one injured, its flight would be hampered, and regardless, wyvern’s bodies were so long, they couldn’t take off straight from the ground like a drake. Both would need to either get up to a ledge above the cave opening and drop to take flight, or get to a clear enough section of incline to have some runway space and pump their tails as they took off. And the injured one would hopefully be slower at that.

But the unwounded one seemed just as enraged as his brother. Points for solidarity.

The witcher desperately blocked back and forth, forced to yield some more ground before he saw the bloodied tail of the injured one escape the cave and vanish.

Now or never. He feinted left then swung right, taking a direct shot at the head. The damned thing brought its wings forward to take the slash, and blood rained everywhere as they stumbled to the mouth of the cave. Wiping his eyes Geralt slipped in the gore, still swinging, and fell backwards about six feet down the incline, one of the jagged rocks catching the edge of his back plate and slicing into him on his lower back on his left side.

Instantly the serpent glided on its coils down the ledge and close……the witcher froze, forcing himself to stay still, stay skewered on the stone and feign shock. He huffed and panted, eyes glued to it, then let his sword drop back against his shoulder, heavy. The creature lowered its head, twisting its coils tight and gathering itself up for its next strike— then plunged its barb down instead.

With a swing more like taking an axe to tree trunk, Geralt had the poison tail off. In rage and pain, the thing simply became a sea of twisting coils trapping the witcher’s legs as he struggled to stand, its bleeding tail whipping wild through the air. Geralt grappled with it, so close and tangled his sword was almost useless.He got his feet under him and managed to roll off the piercing rock and felt cold air then a rush of hot liquid from the wound in his back. Fuck fuck fuck.

The head, all teeth came down and he parried it to one side, managing an upward stab with the sword to its neck about four feet down from the head.

Its slashing maw caught his left gauntlet, and Geralt gave it up, sliding his hand from the leather before a fang could pierce him.

Now it was almost like battling three things at once. The coils of the tail still struggled to keep a grip on Geralt, while its talons reached and clawed desperate to remove the sword imbedded in its neck and the torn wings pumped the air furiously, only managing to lift the chaos a few feet off the ground.

It was not clean, but it was a killing blow. Or would be. In any other situation, the witcher could have retreated at this point and let it exhaust itself and bleed out before collecting his sword…

But there was its sibling. And his stomach was ice thinking of where it was headed.

He pulled his dagger and bodily climbed up the flailing animal, his ungloved hand cut and scrapped raw on the knife-like scales, until finally he drove the blade straight into the back of the beast’s skull.

It had been hours since Geralt and Roach had left, but not so long that Jaskier was concerned.

Wary, sure. But not concerned. Sometimes tracking and sneaking up on things took time.

Still, this was his least favorite thing during a hunt — to be stuck alone in the dark. This high up in the wind, it was even colder than the chill nights of the fen and the valley.

He fed the fire steadily, staying with his back to one of the boulders and with a mostly clear view of the direction the witcher had left in.

Then he heard something in the dark past the fire where it was hard to see.

“Roach?” How does one call a horse? He made a kissing noise like calling a puppy.

But the sound hadn’t been a twig snap or the clop-clop of hooves on hard ground though, and realizing that made every hair on the bard’s neck stand at attention.

It was a shushing, shuffling noise, like something big was whispering.

Jaskier swallowed and reached for one of the branches he had hanging out of the fire. With his other hand, he found his dagger, and slowly gathering his feet under him.

As he rose up to look past the fire, something from its other side rose up with him, until he was staring eye to eye with a red scaled serpent’s head and hateful yellow eyes.

Jaskier froze, trying to think. With the space of the fire, it was about eight feet in front of him. But he could see writhing coils spreading to either side on the ground.

Don’t move. Don’t breath.

He kept his grip on the branch trying to think. The tail was poison. The head was poison. If it attacked with one, it might be to drive him towards the other?

Right. Take the devil you know. If he could see the head, he should keep it that way.

The thing edged too close to the flame and jerked back, then hissing, lunged, open-mouthed to Jaskier’s right.

He swung the flaming branch and it pulled back, but then drew itself up taller, until the bard was staring up at fangs and spread wings and glittering talons.

“Oh sweet fuck.”

Red coils like a solid tide swept over the ground angrily, exploding the fire and sweeping the bard’s feet from under him. Jaskier toppled backwards, the branch rolling away, and managed to scramble crab-like, back deeper into the maze of boulders.

Getting behind one rock, he was able to get up, only to have to throw himself behind another as the monster slithered in, barely hampered by its tarpaulin like wings.

Jaskier couldn’t think. He dodged this way and that, instinctually trying to get back to where he could see burning wood in hopes of using it as a weapon. He still had his dagger, but compared to the beast it might as well have been a salad fork.

The wyvern cornered him behind a rock where the ground dropped down a steep incline into the dark, and the bard swiped with the knife blocking a couple strikes before the third swing glanced hard off the back of the scales, twisting it from his grip. Hissing, the thing drew back to strike again.

Jaskier backed up, arms rising in front of him instinctually as he frantically looked for an escape.

And then the thing dashed to the ground.

No, not just it.

Bugling and snorting, Roach had come out of the dark and threw herself on it, dropping to her knees on it to crush its wings into the dirt.When the head swung around, she hammered and bit at its neck, her flat teeth like a blacksmith’s tongs.

The moment she rose, the thing slithered lighting fast up the cliff face andinto the dark. Screaming and belling, the mare reared and balked, as though challenging it to come back.

Trembling, Jaskier hugged himself, staring wide-eyed at the horse, almost as afraid of her as the dragon. He looked around swallowing, then edged back to the remains of the fire.

Geralt heard Roach and charged towards the sound, only to be met with the damn serpent, wings crumpled, bleeding and very very desperately pissed off. It was a weird bit of luck, both so shocked they acted on impulse: it to rear up to strike and the witcher to swing his sword. The blow went five inches deep, scales be damned, into its lower neck and the beast twisted on the ground, writhing in pain. With the second blow, Geralt went to his knees, but the head came off and the creature was still.

* * *

* * *

“Your back… God, Geralt…” Panting still, Jaskier took in the whole battered state of him: gauntlet gone, hand scraped to hell, hair matted with dirt and twigs, sections of armor cut or torn, and the grim slick of blood clotted with more dirt down one hip and leg.

“There were two of them.” The witcher gritted.

“Two?”

“Other body’s up there.” Geralt tossed a look over his shoulder before limping closer to the scraped-back-together fire.

Jaskier swallowed, managing to process this.

Geralt had taken them both on, outnumbered.

He was hurt.

The bard took his arm and tugged him into the remains of camp. “Here then. Let’s have a look…” He urged, helping Geralt kneel on one of the bed rolls. The wolf yanked one of his saddle bags close and wincing, undid the buckle holding his armor back plate and let it slip loose carelessly.

Lifting the soaked and torn hem of Geralt’s shirt, Jaskier looked over the damage. At first the wound beneath looked like a rough clotted gash, just a pebbled black line in the firelight, but in a breath it oozed, then inches parted and bled freely. The bard quickly wadded the shirt tail and pressed the fabric back to it firmly.

“This is deep,” He said softly. “It’ll take a stitch or two.” With one hand he sifted through the bag until he found the folded wallet with needles, blades and other small tools, then hesitated. “I’ve not done this before.”

“Sewn?” Amber eyes pinned him, grimly amused.

“Well, yes, I’ve sewn. Just not — you know — ah, flesh.”

Reaching back awkwardly, the wolf managed to grip and hold the chunk of garment to his lower back. “Doesn’t have to be pretty. Here…” With his free hand he batted one of the bottles that had tumbled from the sack towards the bard. “Pour that over it, and the needle—”

Then he whistled hoarsely for Roach.

The mare, still twitchy and flaring her nostrils, approached, and Geralt unceremoniously yanked a hair from her tail. “…And this.”

“Right.” Jaskier nodded, feeling himself center. This had to be done, and done now.

It was remarkable how much of the gash had begun to stick already, just from being covered and held tight. But still… Once he’d poured whatever the potion was he’d been handed over the wound and tools, Jaskier did not like how the blood pulsed freely with each beat of Geralt’s heart — even if it was slower than his or anyone else’s.

With careful hands he pierced skin and eased the ragged edges together, knotting two horsehair stitches to close the tear, then finding his scarf, he folded it to the cleanest side and pressed it over the wound. After casting around a moment or two, he grabbed the strap from the saddle bag and cinched it over the bandage firmly. “Try that.”

Climbing to his feet stiffly, Geralt leaned against Roach. He looked even paler in the weird blue light that was coming on with dawn. “S’ fine. Almost morning. Let’s get down in the light.”

Jaskier looked at the shredded campsite, partially kicked apart fire. “Right.”

It was hours later before they began limping down the foothills of the mountain. Jaskier had bundled their supplies up quickly enough, but then they had to climb and locate the wyvern's body, and it was Geralt who had to roll the monster in their tarp and get it onto Roach’s back. Once loaded, with both exhausted and on foot, picking their way over the rough descent was slow going.

“And they wanted the whole carcass?”

The witcher nodded. “I’ll have to tell them how to find the brother.”

Jaskier frowned, but didn’t press the issue. His preference would’ve been for Roach to carry Geralt, not some dead murderous lizard, but he knew better than to argue points of a contract. It struck him even stranger, Geralt’s specific choice of words. Brother. The witcher knew these creatures and had used similar details before, for all the world like looking up a reptile’s tunic or reckoning their family tree was as obviousand necessary as dodging all the hissy pointy bits. Sympathy among hunters and killers, perhaps? Jaskier couldn’t say, but no one asks to be born a wyvern he supposed.

The weather was turning colder, and by midday when they began to trudge across the valley, it was darkly overcast. The food stores had been scattered and destroyed during the fray in the camp, so they didn’t break other than to water Roach and let her graze a little before plodding on.

Well before evening, it grew even darker and the sky opened up, pouring down rain.

“Fuck.”

Geralt, who’d been leaning on Roach’s shoulder as he walked, tugged the hood of his cloak up. Without a word, he flapped an arm of it to the horse’s shoulder and pulled the bard underneath to walk in this rough shelter. Water rolled off the oilcloth, soaking their pant legs and running into their muddy boots, but having one’s head and shoulders remain drier was better than nothing.

The dim afternoon half light in the storm slowly melted to full dark, and Jaskier, hugging himself and shivering realized dully that the raw grassland had become a dirt road beneath their feet. It soothed some nagging part of his brain that had begun to wonder if they were sure they were headed towards the village at all in this dark wet mess……And he wondered if Geralt was quietly bleeding into his boots, unseen.

Presently, the wolf stopped, lifting his head, and Jaskier saw under the sagging drip of the cloak, small lights ahead of them.

Small lights moving… …Growing bigger.

“Oh thank ever-loving blessed fuck.”

An Equil party of ponies and wagons had come out to meet them.

Industrius in the dark and wet, the Equil party shifted the wyvern’s body from Roach to one of the wagons. Jaskier couldn’t follow what was said when they spoke to Geralt, but the bard was surprised when two of the Equil’s flanked Roach, holding her reigns for Geralt while the witcher hefted himself to saddle with obvious effort. Another rider, a woman, waved Jaskier into the back of the other small wagon, its bed canopied with a tarp against the storm.

Huddling against the cold, Jaskier only watched Geralt as they rode. The wolf was slumped forward, hood pulled low to keep the water out, swaying. _Exhaustion._ Jaskier fretted. _Blood loss…_ If anything, it looked like Roach was following the wagons and Equil riders herself more than the wolf was guiding her, and Jaskier worried again whether his stitches held or if that gash was still bleeding.

He heard a banging on the buckboard and he shifted, crawling close to the front of the wagon bed. The driver passed him back a flask, nodding at him encouragingly. Sniffing, it smelled like fruit and and alcohol proof high enough to singe nose hairs. Jaskier gratefully took a swallow against the cold and passed it back, bowing and nodding his thanks.

As they came into the village, Jaskier tried to make out the small farm structures, but really he could only see the closest dwellings that had lanterns out: little stone houses half the height and proportion of any he’d seen before. Even the stables and a dark mill they passed were tiny, making him think of miniatures and playhouses for rich children at court.

The party pulled up at a larger rock building — obviously some sort of meeting house.

The bard swallowed, untangling himself from the wagon and moving to hold Roach. He’d witnessed this before … presenting the monster corpse was part of the routine. The victorious hunter returns. He wanted to get through the formalities, all his concern on Geralt.

But the wyvern cart continued on, disappearing in the dark, and once Geralt slid down from Roach, the wolf actually let a pair of the Equils lead the mare away with their ponies, while the rest of the party ushered the two of them inside.

Ducking beneath lintel, the bard looked inside and suddenly understood. There wasn’t a crowd of villagers in the meeting house or some ceremony waiting. The Equils had cleared away the tables and chairs and done their best to make the hall into a warm guest room sized up to accommodate them. On the far wall was a huge lit hearth surrounded by a semicircle rock bench and in front of that were two bed pallets, made by layering their own stuffed mattresses side by side for their taller height and covering them with linens and heavy wool blankets.

A group at the fire had a kettle and water heating, but at the party’s entrance, they hurried over, herding the pair to the warmth of the rock bench and bringing dry blankets, and a box filled with jars of herbs and other medicines.

Geralt went willingly, but when Jaskier began to undo his cloak for him, he growled. “Get your own wet things off. ‘M alright.”

The bard ignored this, as did the others helping peel the cold soaked garments off of him. When they got to the strap around his waist, there was a bunch of concerned chatter among the villagers.Jaskier swallowed and undid the buckle, easing it free.

The wound was ugly, and the bard’s stitch work would never recommend him as a surgeon, but it had only oozed a modest amount more blood into the scarf before clotting, and it wasn’t especially red or swollen.

Relief flooding him, the bard let two of the Equils start divesting him of his own soaked clothes and wrap him in a dry blanket while he watched the others help Geralt lay down on one of the pallets, belly down.

An older woman cleaned the gash with some sharp smelling tincture before coating it in salve and wrapping it once more. Others brought pans of warm water, cleaning away the leaves and dirt and soaking the wolf’s scraped up hand, before bringing both of them hot soup and cider mulled with warming spices.

The whole time, Geralt nodded, uttering the same short phrase softly. Jaskier didn’t need a translator to guess it was ‘thank you’.

When the wolf finished his meal, he settled on his good side into the soft bedding, exhaling a heavy sigh as blankets were pulled over him. He blinked a couple times at Jaskier before he was out.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended this chapter to go a bit further, but I also hadn't posted in so long, I ended up just dividing it into two parts. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

* * *

Jaskier slept like the dead. When he woke slowly in the morning, he lay warm, relaxed and muzzy under a comfortingly heavy mass of blankets and sheep’s hides.

The hall was dim but for the fire, and some part of his sleepy brain told him there was some activity in the room, but he was still drifting in the soft pleasant fog of body heat and fading dreams. He felt curiously secure. Not like a campsite where part of you was always listening for some intruder to break Geralt’s wards, nor like a tavern where anyone outside your door was often, at best, indifferent, and at worst, an open threat. Strangers or not, he and the witcher were welcome here and that felt… 

…rather nice, actually.

He stirred to roll over and lift up on his elbows to see how Geralt fared.

The witcher was still out, stretched limp in his own warm nest, making only a soft buzzing snore. But his color was good and he looked content and comfortable enough. Definitely more hibernating bear than stalking wolf for the moment, Jaskier observed with a smile. He let his chin fall into his hand as he indulged himself in a few moments of watching Geralt sleep.

Finally he turned away, rustling and stretching more to shake off the drowsiness and see what the little busy noises he’d heard nearby were about.

One of the wagoners from the night before was at the far side of the fire with a kettle: a weathered, wiry woman with straight iron gray hair. When Jaskier sniffed and sat up, she smiled and waved to him.

He bowed and grinned back, pulling some of the covers around his waist. Nearby he saw his lute case and a couple of Geralt’s gear bags, plus his sword and arsenal resting on a bench, but the packs with their tarp, clothes or anything of fabric were gone, probably hanging to dry out somewhere.

Presently the woman brought him a steaming mug of dark milky tea, and Jaskier bobbed his head. “Ah, cheers. Thank you…” He tried to say the phrase for thanks he’d heard Geralt repeating the night before, but at this, the woman’s eyes widened and she looked really amused. Hmph. And languages were usually his strong suit. Must have got the accent wrong.

She’d caught his look to their bags and nodded pointing to them then back at him before making a little gesture that could only mean ‘wait’, then she hurried through a door at the back of the hall and returned a moment later with a folded bundle of clothes and a young man trailing at her elbow. The teen had sandy yellow skin and brown dapples the size of grapes all over his face like the biggest freckles. He smiled shyly at Jaskier and bowed.

“My dam sent me.” He said quiet and haltingly, his eyes wide as he searched the bard’s expression for how his words landed. “I - I have some common tongue.” Here the boy’s eyes darted to Geralt. And yes, the witcher’s hearing being what it was, even this quiet exchange was probably filtering in… But the wolf only shifted, sighed and settled again.

“So you do.” Jaskier whispered accepting the offered bundle of clothes with a smile and nod. Looking down, he realized they were his garments from the night before, cleaned and tears stitched. Looking back and forth at the pair, Jaskier said softly. “You fixed these? That’s so kind. Thank you.”

The boy quietly translated this to the wagoner and she grinned at Jaskier and patted his shoulder before going back to tend the fire.

Jaskier tugged on his shirt. “I’d like to learn some of your words. And his…” the bard thought quickly, “Check on his horse?”

“Dress. Come.” The boy pointed to the door.

After hurrying into his trousers and boots, Jaskier started to follow, but stopped, looking back at Geralt.

But the boy shook his head and handed him a wool cloak to don. “No. No. He’s……earned sleep.”He picked up the lute case and pushed it into the bard’s hand, waving him to follow.

“Too right.” Jaskier agreed with a quiet laugh and hurried after the young man.

Outside, it was frosty cold, but the rains had passed. Jaskier trotted along with his host, squinting curiously in the bright morning at the Equil village in daylight. The muddy roads had rushes and planks tossed over the worse areas for foot traffic, and all around was bustling activity: some shops and market stalls open, an overloaded hay wagon weaving through, a group of weavers boiling wool in hot dye vats under a workshop eave. The bard spotted a town square surrounded on one side by a large pony paddock and beyond that and some of the little houses, he could see rowed orchards with various small gnarled trees.

And Roach, it turned out was, of course, fine.

More than fine, actually.

She had a giant stall all to herself, was groomed till her orangey brown coat gleamed — not that you could see much because she was also covered in a cream wool blanket, the edges of which had a weave pattern of clover leaves and blossoms done in moss green thread.

Wading around her warm stall in drifts of fresh gold straw, she contentedly munched on a flake of salt grass hay and some mixed grain from a hammered copper pan. The window of her stall was open to a paddock full of a rainbow of the Equil’s splashy ponies, many of whom were bunched up by the opening, snorting and trying to investigate the giant new comer.

“Any complaints, your highness?” Jaskier muttered, leaning over the door to greet her.

Roach ignored him and flicked her tail.

“She is well?” The teen asked anxiously.

Jaskier gave him a smile. “Very well. Thank you.”

“What is ‘highness’?”

“Oh. Ah, it’s respect. Like addressing an elder? Or your dam?”

The boy nodded seriously. “You are hungry?”

Jaskier eyes lit up. “Yes. Also, I’m Jaskier. That’s Roach — and you are?”

“Herlin.”

Herlin had an ulterior motive in luring Jaskier from the meeting house with promises of breakfast it turned out. More than showing off his decent foundation in common tongue, or making nice with the new guests of the village at least. When he led the bard to duck under the lintel down into one of the Equil’s small homes, Jaskier found himself in a busy kitchen surrounded by other musicians.

The room the kitchen opened onto was littered with guitars, fiddles, harps, fifes, and hand drums and other assorted percussion pieces, some resting in their stands and some already in the hands of the gang inside. Seeing Jaskier and his lute case, instantly the group hooted and cheered in welcome.

There was no way Jaskier could try to follow or ask Herlin to translate the onslaught of chatter that followed, but it also didn’t matter in the least. He was fine. Music was it’s own language and he was among his people. So he let himself be tugged into a chair and pulled his lute out, letting the others pass it around and admire the Elven craftsmanship while he accepted a plate of eggs, bannock and sausage.

The musicians were taking turns experimenting with different songs and pieces as they drank more of the strong milky tea and ate breakfast. Jaskier was no exception — he blended right into the flow without a thought. Instruments were passed around and noodled with, letting more experienced players refine novice’s fingering or try different techniques. Chords and melodies were tinkered on or taught. And as this went on, everyone took a turn at the fire and griddle to refill plates.

When they played on an Equil tune Jaskier had never heard, he watched those with guitars and tried to learn the chord progression, ending with he and one of the guitarists swapping instruments to try the part again. The Equil instruments were of course sized down for hands half the reach of the bard’s own, so this exercise quickly devolved into the two trying to outdo each other in modifying their fretwork in ridiculous ways to fit the instrument and cracking each other up.

At one point, being handed another mug of tea, Jaskier tried again to say ‘thank you’ and the woman next to him laughed so hard she did a spit take.

“Okay! Herlin. Please, what am I doing wrong?”

And this turned into a game of trying to teach the bard Equilese words. His hosts would point at something, listen to the name in common tongue, then pronounce the Equil word for it… …and then Jaskier would slaughter it trying to say it back to them.

Which seemed grossly unfair since they seemed to have no trouble mimicking his pronunciations. Laughing and exasperated, Jaskier took his lute back and pretended to pout over adjusting the tuning. If he didn’t watch himself, he’d accidentally end up teaching the whole room to say ‘cock’ and ‘bollocks’ and then where would he be?

Eventually the group began to break up and a couple (Jaskier guessed were the home owners) began gathering dishes andshoo-ing them out the door.

“Tonight. We will celebrate harvest and freedom from the dragon. Everyone gets ready now.” Herlin explained, as he walked Jaskier back to the meeting house. “You will play with us?”

“Oh! Certainly. I’d be honored.”

The boy grinned and patted Jaskier’s arm. “I find you later. My sire calls.” And he hurried off.

Back inside, Jaskier found the wolf awake. He was being fussed over by several of their hosts while he did his best to eat a plate of food in his lap one-handed. One man had checked and was rewrapping the bandage around his lower back, another lady splayed his fingers and peered at the scabs on his scraped hand critically through some thick glasses. The iron gray-haired woman was carefully running a comb through his hair, separating out the front to braid back in a que.

The two looking over his wounds shook their heads, pointing and commenting brightly.

“Well? Do they think you’ll live?”

Geralt huffed, amused, swallowing down a bite of egg. “They don’t seem to want to allow that it’s knitted up so fast. I’m a fascinating specimen.”

Jaskier plopped down cross-legged on the floor in front of him and helped himself to a sausage off his plate. He was enjoying the expression Geralt would make each time the comb slid along his scalp. The man looked like he might actually start purring. “Right. Did you know you’re also invited to a party?”

“I heard. S’fine. Be good to spend another night.”

Jaskier’s heart leapt. “Excellent. Also, Roach will be so pleased.”

The witcher’s gaze narrowed on the bard with interest, but he smiled. “I expect she’s being pampered?”

“Ho ho! We should receive such treatment. You’d think she took down both lizards and all their kin single-hoofed.”

Geralt made an amused noise, suspiciously like a chuckle, and Jaskier tried his best to enjoy the rare sound even though—soddingcockfuckingbollocks—of course it always came back to that damned horse.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is getting pretty close to the end, so I hope to wrap it up before new years.   
> Um, in other news, pandemic isolation, my mental health and social media (A03 is 100% social media) have not been playing well together lately, so if anyone wanted to say something nice it would really be appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all been Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier... Probably past due for some Geralt perspective. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can either watch completely wacked out shit happen in slow motion in DC on CNN or I can finally power through some writers block to take my mind off it...

* * *

**Geralt:**

Despite the skirmish at their campsite and the rough travel through the elements after the hunt, the bard seemed to have bounced back just fine, Geralt noted. He finished his breakfast listening to Jaskier tell him about hismeeting with the other musicians and that there was at least one member of the Equil clan he could talk to in common tongue.Of course the bard had found a party. Pitch him in a dungeon or a barn and he’d still pop out five minutes later with stories of wine, women and song — or perhaps complaining of the lack thereof.

The wolf stretched and sniffed sleepily, only half listening as Jaskier now shook out and held up the witcher’s clothes, bubbling to point out how carefully their hosts had cleaned and patched them up. Good. If he was going to run at the mouth, at least it was all complimentary. And he was glad too, to see that Jaskier was in good spirits despite being among strangers.

The elder woman who had treated him the night before wanted him to stand and twist and bend. Huffing with amusement, Geralt tugged a blanket around his waist and complied, only to find he was still a bit tired and stiff. Nothing that wouldn’t pass fully after a day or so.

“My companion and I are well and fine.” He gave her a smile and bowed his head. “We would help prepare for tonight’s festival. Please. What can we do?”

The woman laughed in shock and shook her head and the other two joined her in arguing this down so eagerly Geralt couldn’t make out all their words.

Now the bard gave him a bemused look.“Well, they didn’t like whatever you just said. What on earth did you tell them?”

The wolf held up his hands in a placating gesture a bit surprised and resumed his seat on the pallet. “I said we’d help with the work for tonight…”

The iron-haired woman, he now knew was Lel, gripped his shoulder and continued scolding him.

“Please. Slower. Slow down.” Geralt pleaded, trying not to laugh.

“This is touched.” Lel breathed pointing to his back. “How could it heal so with the poison? It could not — you will harm yourself.”

Ah…

The Equil’s seemed to understand enough about mutations and a witcher’s healing ability, but suddenly their total awe over his wound closing made more sense.They thought _the wyvern_ had slashed his back.

“No. No poison.” Geralt shook his head. “A misunderstanding. In the fight the animal caused me to fall back on a rock. A jagged rock. I didn’t take any venom.”

The three Equils looked at each other, then Geralt found himself having to let all three examine the closed gash yet again, now in a chaotic chatter of amusement and admiration. Giving up and lowering the blanket, the witcher saw Jaskier cross his arms and smirk raising an eyebrow, clearly enjoying his center-of-attention awkwardness. He felt himself start to burn red under the scrutiny.

Right then it occurred to Geralt that the Equil village would be a perfectly safe place for the bard to spend the winter…No court intrigues to get embroiled in… The witcher would know precisely where to find him come spring…The culture and language would be educational, and he’d even already found other musicians for companions, right? It would be quite easy to slip away having the only full-size mount for miles, so long as he also stole their purses so the bard couldn’t hire passage if he made it back as far as the mountain village…It was a selfish and devious, but very pleasing thought to trick Jaskier into being stuck where he’d be safe, welcome and protected… Not that he’d ever do it.

“What are you smirking about?” Jaskier stepped back in, making a show of handing Geralt his clothes, which blessedly made the trio of Equil mother hens back off. “And what did you tell them?”

“Apparently they thought the lizard cut me, not a rock.” Geralt told him, quickly pulling his shirt on. “They were shocked I was offering manual labor when I’m clearly about to fester and die of wyvern venom.”

“Right. Like that would stop you.”

Even clearing up the nature and severity of Geralt’s injuries, it took some more cajoling and arguing for the witcher to get the Equils to agree to give them some sort of work to help out with the evening’s planned festivities. Geralt suspected whatever their duties turned out to be, they were likely light and ceremonial. But if that’s all he could win, that was still fine. Custom and etiquette only demanded that he press and persist until they allowed them to do _something_.

And even so, Lel and her friends insisted they go have soak in the village baths before they would give them a job.

“It’s a hot spring?” Jaskier perked up curiously as the two followed Lel from the meeting house and down to a stone building near the village square.

Geralt translated his question to her and she nodded. “Mineral waters. From under the mountains.”

Inside they found a wide butter-yellow stone staircase, its shallow steps cut for shorter legs leading down into chambers hewn straight into solid rock.

The air as they descended grew moist and damp and the stairs became raised wood and reed platforms up off the wet slick rock, corralling a vast series of cascading oval pools of steaming water.The chamber was so large, it was difficult to see the far side of it through the fog of steam, but Geralt could spy several wrinkled faces looking up from the closest pools and hear the squeals and laughter of some young children splashing. Hanging lanterns and a skinny chimney air shaft provided soft light.

Lel showed them pegs to hang their clothes and where drying cloths were before bowing and vanishing.

Geralt snorted. “I guess she comes back when she decides we’re done?”

“If at all.” The bard was already half naked and eagerly yanking off his boots. “I’m moving in here if it’s all the same to you.”

“Fucking hedonist.” Geralt snorted.

“Too right. You should try it sometime. Even a little bit can be good for the soul.” Jaskier, seeing some of the Equils waving them in, hurried over and dipped his foot in the water before groaning happily. “Oh yes. Heaven…” And he was wading in, grinning at his companions as they scooted over to make room on the pool’s underwater bench.

Realizing he’d been studying the bard’s backside and legs as he stripped, Geralt huffed looking away and began shucking off his shirt.

A friend.

Something twisted in the witcher’s gut. This wasn’t the first time he’d caught himself lingering on Jaskier’s body… not that he’d ever let the mouthy bard catch him at it. But if he had to put up with the constant chatter, and the worry of traveling with the musician, he could steal a look here and there.

A witcher’s life wasn’t made for companions. Not for friends, or family, or children. The Path was solitary, and it was safest that way. Already allowing Jaskier — okay, to be very honest — _finding and helping_ Jaskier join and follow him each year, he was breaking rules. It’s not that there was some strict code forbidding it. But everything he was taught and trained and knew of the dangers of the Path meant he was being selfish and irresponsible to foster it and not immediately put an end to it.

How could he claim to be the bard’s *ahem* _friend_ , when he — fully knowing the dangers — let him traipse after him as he worked and hunted?

His rationale was that Jaskier was not a child. He was a grown man who made his own decisions. And despite that the bard rarely had any weapon on him more than a dagger for utility, and he tended to favor, frankly, ridiculously fancy clothes, Jask wasn’t helpless. He was as tall as Geralt and solidly built for someone who didn’t train or condition themselves. A grown man, with ample strength and agency…

Still…

The stab of fear he’d felt when Jaskier had twisted his ankle, and oh god, the ice water cold panic when he saw that second wyvern disappear towards their camp…

You’re a fool to entertain it wolf. You were a fool to let this start…

But he had. Little by little. To have someone to talk to.

He’d admired and felt bitterly jealous of the bard’s ease with people. Ease with smiles, dancing, touches… and he lied to himself and grumped that Jaskier was a foolish flirt, endangering himself over other’s partners. A silly slut who would come to a bad end. But all that? It was only jealousy and a lonely wish that some of that easy affection might be turned towards him.

Presently, Jaskier, the notorious heartbreaker, was sunk up to his chin in a mineral pool with several elderly Equils, entertaining them by prettily singing the dirtiest limericks he knew.

“Stop that.” Geralt waded in hip deep and shoved the bard over to make room.

“Why? They don’t know what the words mean. Tell them it’s a Elvish epic.”

“You might be surprised what they know. Especially since this seems to be grand aunt and grand uncle’s hour in here.” The hot water was sending shuddering ripples of warm pleasure up the witcher’s spine and he sank onto the bench, now neck deep, with a happy groan. “Hmmmph. Never mind. I no longer care… Do as you like.”

“Excellent. Where was I? Yes, of course. The was a lovely young maiden from Aiden…”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I went from having only seen the Netflix show to now being a bit into the third book, and well... They're on the dragon hunt and this one character is going on about the seven headed dragon of Revelations, and describing the whore of Babylon on it's back and Dandelion pipes up with, "Oh! I know her!"  
> Needless to say I'm deeply smitten. <3


End file.
